


Someplace You Belong

by Aethelflaed



Series: Sawdust of Words [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Backstory, Canon Compliant, Deleted Scene: Aziraphale's Bookshop 1800 (Good Omens), During Canon, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 01:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20899460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed
Summary: London, 1800.Following his near-promotion, Aziraphale must come to terms with the unexpected feelings this day has revealed. With gentle prodding from Crowley, he finds himself telling a deep secret...--“It’s the symbol of my legion,” he admitted slowly, still not sure why. “Modified slightly, probably to indicate service on Earth.”“Your…? Oh, yes, I forgot. You were created as a warrior.”Aziraphale folded his hands, pressing them together to stop the shaking. “I – I wasn’t, though. Not originally.”





	Someplace You Belong

**Author's Note:**

> This scene takes place the evening after the Bookshop Deleted Scene. If you haven't read it yet, you can find it here: https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/187444746487/im-not-saying-that-we-were-robbed-im-just
> 
> On the advice of my beta reader, this is rated G, but I'll still warn there is a lot of angst in the middle. Be prepared for further hints of what happened during the War.

**London - 1800**

“Who thwarts me  _ thwartingly _ ?”

Crowley scowled, completely absorbed in removing the cork from the bottle. “Shut up. It worked, didn’t it?”

“I honestly can’t see how.” Aziraphale leaned back against the bookcase, feeling the leather spines pressing through his coat. It was oddly comforting.

Completely undignified, of course, sitting on the  _ floor _ of the shop, but the chairs wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow and Crowley was here now, so the floor was the only option. It felt appropriate somehow.

Through the enormous front windows, he could see people hurrying past on the streets outside. Now and then, one would pause to look through, eyes scanning across polished wood shelves still glinting back the last of the evening light, then move on. None seemed to notice the two men sitting amongst the crates in the gathering gloom of the floor, one in white knee-length breeches, double-breasted waistcoat, and muslin shirt with lace at the cuffs and neck; the other with trousers that disappeared into the tops of his boots, a starched cravat, and a long-tailed coat with notched lapels – all black, matching the dark lenses covering his eyes.

With a loud POP the cork came free and a bubbling foam rushed out of the bottle. “Quick, get the glasses,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale held out first one champagne flute, then the other, while Crowley tried to pour. The first attempt led to two glasses full of foam.

“Are you sure this is good wine? What does the label say?”

“I don’t know, Angel. Something in curvy letters that’s hard to pronounce, it’s  _ French _ .” He shook his head, tossing the deep red curls that had been carefully combed forward and waxed into something resembling a bird’s nest in a hurricane, and tried again to fill the glasses. “Look, it’s pink, it’s fizzy, and it cost twice as much as the bottle next to it. This is definitely the good stuff.”

Finally satisfied with the amount of champagne in each, Aziraphale handed one glass to Crowley and half-raised his own. “What should we drink to?”

“Oh, there’s loads to celebrate.” Crowley carefully put the champagne bottle on the floor beside him and shifted his legs – clad to the knee in the finest black Hessian boots – to sprawl more comfortably. “I mean, I finally got to pull one over that bastard, Gabriel, and you get to start a new life as a merchant.”

“Crowley,” he admonished sternly, trying to salvage some dignity from his confusing day. “I am not celebrating your…deception of my superior, however… _ amusingly worded _ it may have been.”

In the darkened room, behind his dark lenses, Aziraphale couldn’t see Crowley’s eye roll, but he recognized the head tilt and grimace that went with it. “Fine. How about, to seizing the opportunity when it arises? Is that neutral enough for you?”

Aziraphale suspected it meant largely the same thing, but he supposed when one’s drinking companion was a demon, one had to be willing to compromise. “To seizing the opportunity.” They tapped their glasses together and drank.

It was extremely good; the rise in wine quality in the last century had been astonishing. Crowley liked to pretend ignorance, but Aziraphale was sure the demon had as much a taste for the finer things as he did. Although their relationship was strictly a business one, he sometimes caught himself looking forward to these moments of shared indulgence.

Which reminded him. Aziraphale placed a hand on the white package on the floor between them. “What’s this, then? Is it the same box from earlier?”

“No, I put that down while, ah, preparing my masterful ruse, and someone walked off with it. This was the best I could get on short notice.”

Lifting the lid, Aziraphale uncovered a small, round pastry, smothered in white icing and topped with jellied red currant.

“Oh! Is this  _ mille-feuille _ ? My dear fellow, where on earth did you get this? Oh, I don’t even own a fork to eat it with!”

“Angel, you really need to start thinking about these things.” He snapped his fingers and handed over a delicate silver dessert fork.

“Well, it’s not as if I planned for you to surprise me with cake. Should I just expect you to turn up every day with pastries?”

Crowley muttered something that sounded like “If you want…” Aziraphale glanced up sharply, but the demon simply sipped his champagne, watching the light fade from the shop windows and the long, black city shadows stretch through the shop.

“You really should speak up, my – ” Aziraphale gasped as his fork cut into the thick pastry:  _ five _ layers of puff pastry, filled with jams, hidden beneath the lightly toasted white icing. Such decadence.

He raised the fork to his mouth, bracing for the sensation, closing his eyes as he took the bite. Thin, delicate layers of pastry, rich with butter, shattering into perfectly crisp flakes across his tongue. Thick, sweet jam with just a hint of tartness. Soft, creamy icing: rich, silky, the subtle sweetness blending perfectly with the acidity of the red currants. A dozen ingredients, each of little interest on its own, melding together into one transcendent experience.

He would never quite get used to the wonder of  _ flavor _ .

“Exquisite,” he murmured when his mouth was clear again. “Absolutely ambrosial.”

His eyes fluttered back open. “My dear, don’t tell me you went all the way to Paris for this?”

“I wasn’t planning to.” Crowley had shifted slightly, shoulder resting on the books behind him, dark lenses turned directly towards the angel’s face. Once, Aziraphale had found Crowley’s intense, unblinking stare unnerving. He could hardly even remember why.

“I suppose a ‘thank you,’ is in order.” Aziraphale rewarded him with a smile, reaching for another bite.

“I’ve told you before. Don’t thank me.”

He arched an eyebrow and lifted the forkful of pastry and jam. “Not even for this?”

Crowley snapped his gaze away, quickly drinking the rest of his champagne. “That isn’t funny, Angel.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Aziraphale eating, Crowley starting on a second glass.

“Why did you do it?” the angel finally asked.

“Are you still talking about that cake? I can’t tell with you sometimes.”

“No need to be churlish,” Aziraphale chided, laying the fork down beside his half-eaten treat. “What you did was too big a risk. What if Gabriel had seen through your little caper?”

Crowley picked furiously at a piece of lint on the leg of his black trousers. “Oh, what was he going to do? There’s been no _ open _ violence between our sides for thousands of years. He wasn’t going to break that truce over me.”

“And if he let word get back to your superiors?”

“I’d have thought of something. Half my superiors are idiots, and the other half…” he twirled his champagne flute between two fingers, then drained it again. “Just takes some creative groveling, really. Nothing I can’t handle.” He lifted the bottle again. “Need a refill?”

“Yes, please.” Two more glasses filled. “Don’t drink too fast, my dear.”

Crowley scowled. “I know how to handle my alcohol.” They sat and sipped for another moment. “But I meant what I said before. Michael’s a wanker. I mean, you’re a wanker, too, sometimes. But Michael would never just…be civil.”

“I doubt they would have sent Michael  _ permanently _ . Far too important.” Being Heaven’s Agent on Earth was technically quite a prestigious position, but at the same time any assignment outside the realm of Heaven was considered dirty, undesirable work. Last he’d heard, there were less than a dozen active agents – by now, probably a  _ lot _ less – and none tended to last more than a century or two.

It was an odd thought. Once, back in the first few millennia, there had been fifty or more active agents. Now only he and Crowley remained from those days.

“Well, whoever they sent. It wouldn’t be someone I could work with.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale hissed, sitting up and instinctively glancing around the empty shop.

“Relax, Angel. No one’s listening. Your lot are busy congratulating themselves and mine wouldn’t even know to look in this shop.”

“You’re sure?”

Crowley just snorted and took another sip of sparkling wine. He was much better than Aziraphale at sensing any Heavenly or Hellish observers. Probably some sort of demonic defense mechanism.

“Besides, I’m not talking about the Arrangement. I just mean, what other angel is going to…” he vaguely gestured to the whole shop, the champagne, the  _ mille-feuille _ , the two of them sitting, watching the last few humans make their way home along the street outside, “…do this?”

As always, Aziraphale felt a tiny flutter of panicked guilt at the thought of his…disobedience. Consorting with a demon. More panic than guilt, though. He should feel  _ more _ guilt. He felt guilty that he didn’t feel guiltier, and the paradox of  _ that _ made his stomach ache.

“That’s not what I – oh, for Satan’s sake. Aziraphale, whatever you’re thinking right now, just stop.” There was a note of defeat in his voice. “We’re supposed to be celebrating. Let’s talk about something pleasant. They gave you an award, right?”

“Oh, yes.” Putting down his glass, Aziraphale carefully removed the medal Gabriel had put on him a few hours before. The ribbon dangled off his fingers, heavy disk filling his palm, golden-bronze orichalcum shining with a soft red inner glow.

He traced his fingers across the surface. Ethereal runes denoting angelic virtues. The symbols of his legion. At the center, a figure with wings and halo, striding across the Earth with a flaming sword.

“So?” Crowley prompted, now turning to sit completely facing him, legs crossed. “What’s it for?”

“Excellence in Obedience,” Aziraphale murmured, the words rising unbidden from a deep corner of his mind. “I mean. Devotion to Duty.”

“Huh. They really do give you badges for following orders?” Crowley finished his third glass – at least – glancing behind him at the bottle before placing the flute on the floor.

“Following orders  _ well _ , I should think. Promoting good. Thwarting evil.” He put as much conviction in his voice as he could manage.

“Furthering the interests of Heaven, or at least of seven jackasses with overly ornate wings.” He could just make out the side of Crowley’s mouth lifting in a familiar half-smile. “I know how much this means to you. Congratulations, I suppose.”

Aziraphale ran his thumb across the angelic figure. This was it. Everything he’d wanted since the day he’d been ordered onto the Wall of Eden. He waited for the rush of pleasure and pride, the sense of accomplishment.

He’d been waiting for hours.

“Well? Let me see.” Aziraphale looked up again to find Crowley stretching his hand toward the medal.

“I don’t think you should. It’s a holy item.”

“I’ll be careful. Come on, Angel. After all those blessings I performed, I should at least get a look.”

Reluctantly, Aziraphale stretched out his hand. Crowley gently, carefully plucked it up by the ribbon. There was a deliberateness to the gesture, making sure their fingers never so much as brushed.

When had that started? There had been a time when casual touches were a regular occurrence. Grabbed shoulders, pointed fingers, items carelessly passed back and forth. He couldn’t remember it happening for at least a thousand years. Somehow, that made him sad.

“This is fancy.” Crowley pulled off his glasses to study it more closely, the gold of his eyes reflecting the only light in the room. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a commendation like this before. Look, there’s a tiny you, sword and all.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, rubbing his hand across the bridge of his nose. Unpleasant memories threatened to stir. He wanted to tell Crowley to break off this whole line of inquiry. As he’d said, this was supposed to be a  _ celebration _ , they should talk about… _ something _ . Anything but this.

“It’s the symbol of my legion,” he admitted slowly, still not sure why. “Modified slightly, probably to indicate service on Earth.”

“Your…? Oh, yes, I forgot. You were created as a warrior.”

Aziraphale folded his hands, pressing them together to stop the shaking. “I – I wasn’t, though. Not originally.”

In the silence that followed, he could almost hear his heart pounding in his chest. Silly thing. He didn’t need blood. Why did it bother?

“Angel, how – what – ?” He could hear Crowley struggling to keep his voice neutral.

A glance to the left. With his dark clothes and hair, the demon had all but vanished in the evening gloom. Just a pair of gold slit-pupil eyes, gazing unblinking from the shadows. Now he remembered why it had unnerved him. That gaze could cut right through you.

“Crowley. We don’t talk about that time.”

“Do you want to?”

Aziraphale bit his lips. It wasn’t a temptation. He knew Crowley’s tricks by now, the sneaky logic, the suggestions, the way his voice softened as he pointed out how  _ perfectly reasonable _ his idea was. He could resist that, when it was important.

But this? This was a question. An offer. Something a thousand times more tempting.

“When you – ” his voice froze. Something inside him rose up, choking off the words. An eternity of military obedience warning him that this was the  _ enemy _ , that he was going to divulge  _ secrets _ . The worst sort of betrayal.

_ Traitor _ , a voice shouted at him from the past.  _ Coward! _

“Aziraphale.” Another glance to the left. Those eyes, still unblinking, unmoving. Now filled with – what? Curiosity? Interest? Concern? He couldn’t meet them long enough to work it out. “Go on.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “When your side Rebelled, we outnumbered you. Two to one. But there weren’t enough warrior angels. We had thousands…against  _ millions _ .”

“I knew that.” Crowley sounded surprised. “I always knew that. But I never thought…”

“Didn’t everyone fight on your side? Regardless of Choir or Sphere or intended Purpose?”

Crowley, caught off-guard, stammered for a moment before he managed, “N-nearly everyone. I think. Broadly.”

That, of course, was exactly the sort of question Aziraphale had once promised never to ask. “That’s what they told us, at least. The Archangels and the Seraphim went around to every category of angel, wherever they were assigned. And where they found surplus, we were…Repurposed.”

“No!” There was no mistaking the horror in his eyes.

“It wasn’t that bad, really,” Aziraphale lied. It hadn’t been painful, at least. He’d just closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he was his new self. A soldier. An officer, even. Someone valued. Needed.

“There was no ‘surplus,’” Crowley growled, with an intensity Aziraphale had never expected. “Every angel created for a Purpose, every angel with a Role to play. That’s the whole bloody  _ point _ of the Plan!”

“My dear,” Aziraphale reminded him gently, “you don’t believe in the Plan. You mention it all the time.”

“I don’t.  _ They do _ . Those – those  _ bastard _ hypocrites.”

“The Plan accounted for your Rebellion, did it not? It must also have accounted for our response. I trust the Archangels had some insight I do not.”

Crowley just shook his head, covering his mouth with one hand. From the other dangled the medal, forgotten, now less than an inch from brushing his knee. Aziraphale carefully reached over and retrieved it.

“Really, if you think about it,” he studied the medal again, “all angels, regardless of their Purpose, are designed for obedience. Discipline. Following orders. And that’s, really, that’s  _ most _ of being a soldier. You just have to rid yourself of everything else.”

“What.” Crowley fumbled for the bottle of champagne, pouring himself another glass, spilling quite a bit in the process. “Do you remember…what you were? Originally?”

_ Ah. That’s why he’s upset. _ The demon had once said something about forgetting who he’d been as an angel. Or not forgetting, precisely. Aziraphale had never been able to find out how it worked. But this whole conversation must be rather too close for comfort.

“Yes. But we don’t need to – ”

“Please.”

Aziraphale sighed, raising a hand to brush the leather spines of the books by his head, again thinking how unexpectedly comforting it felt. He pulled one off the shelf at random, running his fingers across the rough leather. Something stirred in him, something he’d felt many times over the millennia. Something he’d felt more often in the last decade, as he tried to make this shop a reality.

It wasn’t longing, exactly, but a sort of impression of it. The footprint of a desire long passed, pressed into the sand of his soul, stubbornly refusing to be washed away by the tide. A trace fossil of what he had once been.

“I was an Angel of Knowledge.”

He closed his eyes, allowing himself to fall back into the deepest part of his memories. Before the Garden. Before the War. When there was Peace in Heaven.

“There wasn’t anything to Know, yet. Not really. We were unfinished, but not formless. You might say…quiescent. Abeyant. Unrealized.”

There had been a group of them. Ten. So many angels. So many friends. They would gather away from the rest of the Angels of Knowledge, talk about the World to Come. What they had learned. What they could guess. Each had a little foreknowledge, related to their specialty, and they shared it freely.

He would be their leader in the War. Had he led them back then, too, in the time Before? Or was that just a trick of his memory?

“We would slip away sometimes. Watch the universe be created. See the stars and nebulae being spun out of raw chaos.”

The great Void, a darkness beyond black, suddenly blossoming into colors outside mere human perception. Rahatiel, Angel of Constellations, knew the name of each as soon as it was formed, face glowing with a joy the others could only imagine. There was no jealousy; they would all know that bliss when their own specialties were created, their own Purposes fulfilled.

What had Aziraphale’s specialty been? He could remember all the others, but never his own.

“Then came the Rebellion. And there was no time for such things, not with all of Creation at stake.”

They watched as Gabriel and Zophiel, one in brilliant blue and white robes, the other armed with a flaming sword, inspected the assembled host of angels. They clung to each other, not knowing what would come next, taking comfort in each other’s presence. He could still feel Omael’s trembling fingers on his arm, still remember how Eiael stood behind them as if to shield the whole group with dark blue wings.

The Archangels had said their bond would serve them well in the army, that it would be stronger than one forged new between strangers. He supposed that had been true.

It was probably why his memories with them were clearer than anything else from that time.

Aziraphale could still feel where the pieces of his personality had been cut away, hammered into the new shape required by the war. It wasn’t…painful, exactly, but it was raw. Aching. He let the memory go.

“The Archangels determined there were far, far too many Angels of Knowledge, so more than half were taken and remade into soldiers, and our specialties were reallocated to those who remained.”

He glanced to the left and saw nothing but darkness. “Crowley?” he called, uncertain, almost worried.

“Sssstill here,” hissed a black shape, barely visible now that night had set in. He’d put those glasses back on. Aziraphale would never understand these demonic whims. “Would you ever…go back?”

“To being an Angel of Knowledge? No.” He found he still held the book in his hands and rested it on his lap. Ran his fingers across the stamped letters of the title – a  _ C _ here, a  _ D _ there. “No, I can’t even remember how. It was all so clear then, so simple. Instinctual even. Those instincts are gone. I used to hope that when the War was over, things would go back to the way they were, but…”

Voices rang in his mind.

_ Coward! Traitor! _

_ My friends are dead because of me. _

“…but things happened, and I realized there is no going back.” He riffled his finger up the edge of the pages, feeling the thickness of the paper. “So I became what they wanted me to be.”

There was a rustle of fabric as Crowley moved – perhaps leaning forward, perhaps turning away. “During the Rebellion…”

“Crowley, no. I never asked you anything about the Rebellion. Kindly pay me the same courtesy.”

“You asked one question,” the demon’s voice in the darkness reminded him. But when it continued, that voice was soft, careful, laying out each word as if afraid it would break, or that he would. “Aziraphale. Did you kill anyone? Permanently?”

The darkness plays tricks on the mind.

Aziraphale’s heart pounded in his ears like the relentless march of feet into battle. The shelf behind him became the shields of the second rank, pushing the front line – pushing Aziraphale – inexorably forward, ever onward, threatening to overwhelm him, crush him if he hesitated. Shadowy shapes emerged before him, tall, winged, but twisted – no longer angels, not yet demons, screaming forward with bloodlust in their eyes through a rain of fire and missiles –

For a moment, the sword was back in his hands, already raised to cut a path through the endless tide of the Enemy.

As he swung, the flames illuminated their eyes and he saw not bloodlust, but his own fear reflected back.

And then the armies crashed together, two unstoppable waves with him caught in the center, no time for thought –

Aziraphale drew a sharp breath, shaking his head to clear the memory. He was back in his shop, clutching a book to his chest.

“Aziraphale?”

“If I…” he whispered into the darkness. “If I say no, will you pretend you believe me?”

“If that’s what you want…”

“Then no. I’ve never actually killed anyone.”

“Angel…”

Aziraphale closed his eyes.

Then snapped them open again at the horrible cacophony to his left. It seemed to be composed of, in rapid succession, a rustle, a splat, Crowley shouting “Oh, blast,” a thud, a clatter, a crash, and “Oh, for Satan’s sake!”

The angel snapped his fingers, flooding the room with light, and discovered Crowley now half-sprawled on the floor next to his shattered champagne flute and the overturned bottle. His left hand was covered in pastry. “Did you have to make it so bright?” he complained.

“My  _ mille-feuille! _ ” Aziraphale gasped. Sure enough, the cake had been smashed completely flat. “What were you even trying to do?”

“I wasn’t – I don’t – nothing. I don’t know.” The demon mumbled, looking everywhere but at him.

“Now look. You’re drunk. I warned you – ”

“I’m not drunk!”

Aziraphale glanced at the wine bottle, lying on its side, not spilling but quietly dripping onto the hardwood floor. “Well,  _ somebody _ drank two-thirds of that bottle. I’m only on my second glass.”

“Look, it’s not that big a deal.” Crowley flicked his wrist. The icing and jam coating his hand seemed to atomize, flow through the air, and rejoin the rest of the pastry in the box, plumping back up to the state it had been in when Aziraphale put his fork down. “See?”

“I’m not going to eat that now,” the angel sniffed.

“Why not? It’s as good as new.”

That was probably true; when Aziraphale miracled repairs, things were fixed, or cleaned, or had their imperfections hidden. Crowley, on the other hand, returned things to their original state. It was a small, but important, distinction, particularly with regards to food.

But at this moment Aziraphale didn’t want to concede anything. “That isn’t the point. I will still know the difference.”

“Oh, you think you’re so clever, don’t you?” He snapped his fingers, repairing the broken wineglass. “You know, you would have fit in with the Angels of Knowledge, bunch of pretentious – oh.”

A cold wave of dread washed over Aziraphale. It was one thing to whisper his secrets into the darkness – a darkness that happened to contain Crowley – but it was quite another to hear them spoken out loud in broad daylight. Even when the daylight was his own creation.

He tried to say something. Anything. His voice didn’t seem to work. He had to get away.

Aziraphale stood up, not even caring that the book tumbled to the floor.

There was nowhere to go. The floor of the shop was cluttered with crates, filled with books he still hadn’t unpacked, cutting off his escape. He hurried to the window, hoping to at least see the city outside, but only met his own distorted reflection, pale and sickly.

“Aziraphale – ”

“I have no wish to discuss it, Crowley. Not now, not ever.” Why had he said anything in the first place? This was the most confusing day he’d had in centuries. “I wish you would stop  _ prying _ and – and  _ meddling _ in my affairs!”

Crowley snapped his fingers again. The light dimmed, until it seemed the room was lit by lamplight instead of the sun. Aziraphale listened to the floorboards creak as the demon paced behind him.

“Aziraphale,” he finally said, softer now. “Are you…did you  _ want _ that promotion? Did you want to go back to Heaven?”

“Of course I did! I  _ belong _ in Heaven! I only stay here to…to keep  _ you _ in check.” He poured every ounce of conviction into his voice, hoping Crowley would believe it, because he wasn’t certain he believed it himself. “Heaven is my  _ home _ .”

Home. The tears of joy on Rahatiel’s face as the last star in Orion’s Belt settled into position. Butatar and Umabel speaking in formulae and equations, beautiful as music. Sabathiel clinging to his hand as they were led away for Repurposing, each swearing to the other it would be alright.

Heaven hadn’t been his home for a long time.

The realization unfolded within him like a dull ache. Settled so readily into his chest that he must have known all along, on some level.

He didn’t have a home. And he was so  _ deeply  _ alone.

Crowley continued, almost as if speaking to himself. “Still, if you have to be stuck here, this isn’t a bad place to be. The shop, I mean. It suits you. Like a…tailored jacket. Or a good pair of boots.”

He could hear the footsteps approaching, but stubbornly refused to look away from his ghostly reflection. After all, wasn’t that exactly the problem? Why should this building, which he’d only had for two weeks, feel so much more like home than Heaven itself?

He was an angel. Shouldn’t he be happy to follow his orders selflessly? Shouldn’t he long to return to the austere halls Above, and the Light of God’s Love?

Why did this vague statement from a demon make him feel warm and light inside, when the orichalcum medal pressed into his palm didn’t stir him in the least?

There must be something wrong with him.

Crowley’s footsteps stopped somewhere behind him, and that face – narrow, all hard planes and sharp cheekbones under crimson curls, dark lenses hiding any hint of emotion – reflected back from the window, next to Aziraphale’s.

“I never had a home, Angel,” he continued slowly. “Heaven, I don’t…I remember, but it’s not…” He shook his head. “Most of it doesn’t even feel like my memories. Or it’s tainted, by what came later. Hell,” he spat the word as if trying to get it as far from him as possible, “was awful. Even on Earth, I’m always an outsider. Lurking in the shadows, passing quietly through.” He placed something on the windowsill and stepped back again.

“I think…” Crowley paused for a moment. “I think, if I ever found a place that really suited me… someplace I belonged… I’d hold on to it as long as I could. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting that.”

“Maybe not for a demon, but angels are  _ above _ such things.” He was mostly objecting out of habit, though. Even as he spoke, he placed his hand on the book Crowley had brought over, retrieved from the floor, tracing his fingers across the title. An  _ A _ here, an  _ E _ there. “But I suppose, for now, there’s no harm in…enjoying the space I inhabit . Since I need to be on Earth to thwart you.”

“Thwartingly,” Crowley agreed. “This can be your… home away from home.”

“Yes, my base of operations.” He ran his fingers across the medal one last time, then firmly placed the book on top of it. “Very convenient for…planning and researching.”

“Well, it sounds like I’ll need to be twice as wily, cunning and… was it brilliant?”

Aziraphale’s head jerked around, just far enough to catch sight of Crowley’s smirk. He turned back to the window, trying to avert his gaze from his own reflection. “Oh you heard that. I was just – I only – I – ”

“Relax, Angel. I know you were just trying to make yourself sound irreplaceable. Certainly helped sell my performance later.”

Aziraphale refused to turn and see what sort of overly dramatic gesture was paired with that statement. He knew he should ask if Crowley had heard the rest – “I loathe him – I cannot respect a demon. Or like one” – but found he didn’t want to know the answer.

That was the worst of it.

Becoming attached to a building, to the objects he filled it with, was bad enough. But was he truly so desperate for companionship that he would take pleasure in the company of a  _ demon _ ? There wasn’t even any question – he’d been doing it for thousands of years.

Sometimes, he felt so  _ tired _ of being alone.

“I suppose you’ll be stopping by all the time. To… compare notes, or what have you.” He finally turned around and did his best to meet Crowley’s eyes behind the black lenses. He was surprised how much distance there was between them.

Crowley clenched his jaw, swallowing. “I. Ah. Yes. That would be… convenient.”

Once again, Aziraphale’s traitorous heart rose. “I thought as much. If you’re going to be lounging around all day, I expect you to do some work on occasion. Or at least bring me some sort of compensation for the trouble.”

“Nh. What sort of compensation do you have in mind?” That smirk hovered about his lips again as he took a step closer.

“Well. To start with, you certainly owe me for the  _ mille-feuille _ you ruined, and the champagne you drank, in addition to whatever was in that box you lost earlier.”

“I could replace those,” Crowley said slowly. “Or perhaps I can… buy you dinner. Someplace nice. We can call it even.” His fists tightened.

“I think that would do nicely.” Aziraphale indulged him with another smile. As a demon, he could never be truly friendly, but over the years he had learned to give a remarkable impression of it.

That was the best Aziraphale could hope for – a pale imitation of the companionship, the sense of  _ belonging, _ he’d once known. 

Sometimes, at his weakest moments, he wished very much it was real.

“And the rest?” Crowley took another step forward. “Do I owe you a dinner every time I visit?”

“I suppose that depends how often you come.” He turned away, trying to bring his expression back under control, pushing his silly fantasy away before either of them could see it. 

“It couldn’t be that often,” Crowley mused. “Unless, you know, I had a base in the city, too. A townhouse in Mayfair or something. To help me keep an eye on you.”

“You should.” Aziraphale turned back, this time surprised at how little distance there was. He couldn’t quite meet Crowley’s eyes, but he tried. “That would certainly be the easiest thing, for our business. And...” he lowered his eyes, staring at his own clasped hands. “And you also deserve someplace that suits you. Someplace you belong.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! And thanks as always to my beta reader, kindathewholepoint, for catching my typos and talking me down when I got super anxious.
> 
> Aziraphale says he was an officer but in his flashback he was a front-line fighter; more details on his change in status can be seen in the previous story in this series, "Obedience" (rated T for warfare themes but no violence "on screen").
> 
> Next story will be posted October 12 - we're moving away from Aziraphale's backstory for a bit, but will revisit in the future!
> 
> Comments are appreciated! :) Thank you all!


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